“It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.”

---

That night, I did not use Google to understand more about OCD. I wanted to wait until the appointment with her therapist. The search for cutting nearly sent me into a panic.

But I did dream of Shelly, as usual. Except, we weren’t getting busy. We were lying together. I held her and . . . that’s it. If it’s possible for a dream to be hopeful, that’s what this dream was. I woke up early, well rested with a single question on my mind: where could I buy Shelly potholders before work?

As I moved about, getting ready for the day, the worry set in. Had she given in to her compulsions last night? She said she didn’t own knives, but they weren’t hard to come by. She shaved her legs, didn’t she? So she had razors.

I wished she had a cell phone, and I wished I had some way to check on her.

I accidentally cut my neck shaving, penance for being distracted. Dabbing at the spot with a Kleenex, I tossed it into the toilet. But then the toilet didn’t flush. I made a mental note to grab the plunger from the basement and made my way downstairs where the smell of coffee beckoned.

My thoughts were still on Shelly as I entered the kitchen—whether I should take her someplace other than Daisy’s for dinner, whether I should pick her up flowers, what the rest of her obsessive thoughts were and the resultant compulsions—so I wasn’t paying much attention to my surroundings. My excitement for our date was irritatingly tempered by my concern for her well-being.

Would it always be like this with her? Would thinking about her always be half anticipation, half trepidation?

“What’s wrong?” Billy’s question had me looking up. My second-oldest brother was already dressed for work in his suit and tie. “And shouldn’t you be fishing with Hank?”

“I cancelled. I have an errand to run.” Grabbing a coffee cup from the cabinet, I tossed a thumb over my shoulder. “The toilet is acting funny.”

“Like what? You mean satire?” This question came from Cletus, not bothering to glance away from where he was reading at the table. He was still in his pajamas, his curly hair a mess. Nevertheless, I was surprised to see him up so early.

“No, I mean—”

“I hope it’s a dark comedy,” he added, still not removing his attention from the newspaper.

“Cletus. That’s disgusting.” Sitting across from Cletus, Duane’s tone was reprimanding.

Finally, Cletus tore his eyes from the paper. “What?”

“Dark comedy?” My twin lifted his eyebrows. “Meaning poop?”

“No, Duane.” Cletus paired this with a suffering sigh.

“That would make it a shitty comedy,” I piped in, adding fuel to the conversation fire as I was prone to do, feeling more myself as I smiled.

“Y’all are a bunch of toilets,” Billy mumbled under his breath.

We all turned our attention to our older brother, with Cletus speaking for us, “Let me guess, because toilets in this house act funny?”

Billy tilted his cup toward Cletus. “Exactly.”

I grinned, the rawness in me settling. Being around my brothers was a salve and a good reminder. We had all lived through dark times—sometimes together, sometimes separately—yet here we were, making toilet jokes on a Wednesday before 7:00 AM.

When our father was in the picture, we’d lived our lives in a state of constant agitation. We waited for tragedy to strike, for a shoe to drop, a punch to land.

Living that way was not an option, not anymore. Shelly’s therapist had said she was making remarkable progress. Anticipating failure wasn’t fair to her, and it wasn’t fair to me. No person is exempt from troubles and strife. Her baggage had the label of OCD, mine was labeled Darrell Winston.

As long as Shelly and I could have times like this, as long as the discord was diluted by frequent, everyday moments of knowing and enjoying each other, then I could deal.

I would not cheat myself out of the possibility of her, of us, of hope and happiness.

I refused to expect or anticipate misery.

---

The Piggly Wiggly had potholders. I picked up four, walking past the bundles of flowers to the checkout. Something told me Shelly wouldn’t appreciate flowers like most people would. In fact, I was pretty sure she’d hate them.

My detour to the grocery store meant that I didn’t get to the auto shop until after 8:30 AM, making me the third to arrive. Cletus’s car was still missing. I was excited nerves, now in the grip of happy anticipation. I couldn’t wait to see her.

Duane was stationed at the front of the shop and I came to a stop next to him. Hovering, I gave my eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness of the garage and scanned the expansive space.

“Where’s Shelly? I saw her car in the lot.”

“Under Daisy’s Volvo in the back.” He glanced up from the Ford he was working on, wearing a scowl of concentration.

“Thanks.” Not needing to be told twice, I made to head in that direction, but was waylaid by my twin’s hand on my arm.

“Wait a minute.”

I glanced at his fingers, and then at him. “What’s up?”

He let his hand fall away, but he still wore a scowl. “You want to, uh, grab some lunch later?”

“Pardon?” I couldn’t have heard him right; he always had lunch with Jess.

“Do you want to go grab lunch later?”

“Is Jess out of town?”

“No.”

I surveyed him, the scowl he wore, the set of his jaw. He wasn’t angry, but he was something like it.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.”

Metal clattering against concrete toward the back of the garage snagged my attention. “We’ll see how the day goes,” I said absentmindedly, backing away from my brother and navigating to the dark blue Volvo.

Immediately, I spotted Shelly’s legs and boots sticking out from beneath the car. I grinned, because her legs were bare, which meant she was wearing her cutoff shorts.

I nudged her boot with mine. “Good morning.”

“Morning.” The word sounded strained, then she grunted, then she cursed.

“Are you okay down there?”

Shelly wheeled out from under the car; I backed up to give her space. Squatting next to her as she sat up, her elbows resting on her raised knees, I indulged my desire to devour the sight of her. She’d braided her hair in a circle, so it resembled a crown and reminded me of a milkmaid or a wooden-shoe-wearing lady from The Netherlands. Her expression was unperturbed, but the set of her mouth gave her away. Her teeth were clenched, her lips curved downward, which made her bottom lip protrude a millimeter more than the top.

Shelly wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of grease over one eyebrow. “Someone has stripped these bolts. I’m going to have to use the auto lift.” Her gaze flicked over me, as though unwilling to settle on one place.

“You want help?”

“No, thank you.” Her attention was affixed to the wrench in her hands, she hadn’t looked me square in the eyes yet.

I lowered my voice even though Duane wasn’t likely to overhear us. “Do you still want to have dinner at Daisy’s? Or we could go somewhere else.”

She shrugged, fiddling with the wrench. “I’ll go anywhere you want.”

“Seven? We’ll leave together?”

“Okay.”

I studied her, unable to read her mood beyond evasive. “Shelly.”

“Yes?”

“Look at me.”

“Why?”

“I love how it feels.”

Her eyes lifted to mine suddenly. There it is. I welcomed the stuttering double beat in my chest.

As though unable to stop herself, she asked, “What does it feel like?”

Holding her gaze, I let a slow grin spread over my features and watched for any answering sign of heart palpitations in her. I was not disappointed.

“Beau,” she whispered, her stare growing gratifyingly hazy. “I like it when you smile.”

“What else do you like?” I captured her protruding bottom lip for a quick, biting kiss; skimming the tips of my fingers along the underside of her calf to the silky skin at the back of her knee.

A little moan stole past her parted lips. The sound was a potent mixture of pleasure and frustration, and it made me grin. As I leaned away, one of her hands lifted like she was going to grab me by the shirt to stay my retreat. In the end she didn’t, instead making an empty fist and gritting her teeth again.

I stood, meeting her fiery gaze, not hiding the fact that her reaction pleased me.

Her hot stare moved over me, like I confounded her. “I like how you look at me.”

“How do I look at you?”

She gifted me with an almost smile, giving her head a subtle shake. “Stop wasting time. Get to work.”

“Afraid the boss will see?” I wagged my eyebrows.

Rolling her lips between her teeth, she turned her head just so, squinting at me and saying nothing.

So I inclined my head once and drawled, “Ma’am.” Then turned for the stairway leading to the second-floor office, knowing her eyes followed me the whole time.

I needed to change into work clothes.

I also needed a minute.

Too bad we didn’t have a shower on the premises, because I could’ve used a cold one.

---

It was a good day. In fact, it was the best day in recent memory.

Stealing touches and trading looks—the hot spiky sensations prickling my skin when I caught her watching me or when she caught me watching her—definitely contributed to the greatness of the day, no doubt.

But more than that, much more, discussing solutions like two colleagues, with mutual respect and esteem, was even better.

She asked my opinion about a rusted-out camshaft. I asked her to consult on a warped flywheel. She was brilliant. I had fun. Talking with her, troubleshooting with her, being with her was fun.

The hours got away from us. Duane had left with Jessica around 5:00 PM. Before I knew it, I’d run out of time to drive home for a quick shower. Forced to settle with washing up at the large basin sink at the back of the garage, I couldn’t muster any irritation for the inconvenience.

The sink had three faucets, was made of stainless steel, and was slightly larger than a standard-sized bathtub. As far as I knew, no one had ever tried to climb in and take an actual bath, nor would they want to. It was where we cleaned tools, rags, and grease from our hands throughout the day.

When the need arose for a quick wash, my general practice was to tie the sleeves of my coveralls to my waist, strip off my undershirt, and clean up using a washcloth and a bar of soap.

I’d just soaped my neck when Shelly appeared. She stopped short, clearly not expecting to see me half-naked and covered in soapy water. Her eyes moved over my body in a way that was reminiscent of the day she’d caught me changing in the upstairs office—hot with appreciation.

I smirked even as the spiky heat materialized beneath my skin, making my heart gallop.

“Hello, Shelly.” I tried to sound smooth, unaffected, and mostly succeeded.

Not removing her eyes, she choked out, “Hello,” continuing to stare as though in a trance.

My smirk widened.

Abruptly, she tore her gaze away and walked past, heading for the front where the roller door was already closed. Grinning at her retreating back before she disappeared into the supply closet, I glanced at the clock, noting it was just past 6:30 PM.

I was just about to call out to her, to tease her, when she reappeared, holding a washcloth in one hand and a towel in the other.

The self-satisfied smile I’d been wearing disappeared and my wide stare bounced between her and the washcloth. “What are you doing?”

“Washing.” Shelly twisted the faucet next to mine, draped her towels over the far edge of the sink, and whipped off her T-shirt.

Like before, I caught a tantalizing flash of lace and skin before I averted my eyes to the wall in front of us.

“Shelly . . .”

“Yes?”

I swallowed thickly, unable to block the sight of her bare skin in my peripheral vision. Presently she was peeling off her shorts. I closed my eyes, squeezing them shut as traitorous images—some from my dreams, some new fantasies—assaulted my inner vision. She was torturing me.

“Please pass the soap when you’re finished.” Her voice held humor. Not a lot, just a trace, just enough that I’d notice.

I gritted my teeth, holding the soap out for her to take. “I’m trying to be gentlemanly here and you’re making it real hard.”

She plucked the bar from my hand. “Really? It doesn’t look hard.”

Coughing a disbelieving laugh, my eyes flew open and then I quickly squeezed them shut again, gripping the edge of the sink with both hands least they wander in her direction. “What’s your middle name?”

“Catherine.”

“Shelly Catherine Sullivan, did you just flirt with me?”

She didn’t respond straightaway, leaving me waiting in the darkness behind my eyelids with my lusty imagination, and the sound of running water.

But then she did respond, and her voice was achingly close, I could feel the heat from her body. “Are you always a gentleman?” she whispered, the question sounding honestly curious.

“I will be with you.”

“But have you always been?”

I thought back, way back to my last girlfriend, and the one before that, and the one before that. “Yes. I’ve always been a gentleman.”

I sensed she’d stepped back. “You should make an exception for me.”

“You don’t want me to treat you like a lady?”

“I am not a lady.”

“You’re my lady.” I grinned, enjoying this unexpected exchange.

“Yes.” She sounded thoughtful, serious; I felt her eyes on me as she continued in a whisper, “I’d like to be yours.”

That admission, more than anything, more than the kisses yesterday, more than the hot looks today, had my breath catching, my heart jumping, and my throat burning. It was a promise of what was to come, and what the future might hold, and I ached.

Then be mine, and I’ll be yours, I wanted to say, but I didn’t. I wouldn’t be able to keep the roughness or the hopefulness out of my voice, and I didn’t want to scare her off by coming on too strong too fast.

I heard her faucet turn off and I sensed her retreat. “I’m going upstairs to change.”

“Can I open my eyes?”

Shelly sounded further away when she answered, “You didn’t need to close them.”

I blinked my eyes open, catching the sight of her as she strolled to the stairway. She was wrapped in a towel and her shoulders were bare. I glanced down and saw her clothes—all of her clothes—in a pile by the corner of the sink, and released a ragged breath.

Either she was trying to drive me insane with want, or the woman had no sense of modesty. In either case it didn’t matter, the end result was the same.

Standing there, soapy, shirtless, dripping, and staring like a fool at the evidence of her recent nakedness, I remembered suddenly that Cletus was upstairs in the office working on the books. A shock of something primal and possessive had me hastening to rinse and towel off, hurriedly twisting the faucet and jogging to catch Shelly.

It wasn’t my decision to make, but hell. I didn’t want her changing in front of my brother. I’d been so focused on hurrying, I almost collided with Cletus as I opened the door at the base of the stairs.

“Whoa there, Beauford.” Cletus held up his hands. “Shelly asked me to give her a moment, she’s changing.”

I stopped myself before I laughed my relief, instead swallowing the impulse and nodding as I stepped to the side, allowing Cletus to pass.

“Sure, sure. I’ll wait here until she comes out.”

Cletus shrugged, glancing around the garage. “You could probably go up now. I reckon she’s got the important parts covered by now.”

I stared at my brother, cocking an incredulous eyebrow at his casual dismissal of Shelly’s privacy. “The important parts?”

He pressed his lips into a stiff line, studying the closed roller door with an air of distraction; I got the sense he hadn’t heard me. “Say, uh, you’re still okay closing up the shop on Friday afternoon by yourself?”

“It’s fine.” Now that I didn’t need to rush, I took a moment to towel dry properly.

“And you mind riding with Billy on Saturday morning to Nashville for the thing? He’s working late Friday, too.”

“‘The thing’ being your show with Claire?” I studied his profile. He sounded funny, anxious. “You nervous?”

“No.” He answered too quickly, his gaze settling on the Master Lock toolbox closest to us. “I’m impervious to nerves, you know that.”

“Sure, Cletus.” By some miracle, I didn’t roll my eyes.

“You’ll be, uh, picking up Ms. Sylvester on the way Saturday morning. I expect you to behave like a gentleman. She’s not equipped to parlay with a flirt of your magnitude.” My brother’s attention returned to the toolbox and he cleared his throat.

“You mean Jenn?”

His eyes cut to me, sharp and suspicious. “You don’t know the lady well enough to call her Jenn.”

That had my mouth dropping with surprise even as I grinned. “Oh really?”

“No.” He crossed his arms and lifted his chin, challenge etched on his features.

“Well then, maybe I’ll use the drive to Nashville to know her better.”

Even though my brother was now squinting, the fire behind his eyes was plain as the sun and twice as hot.

I kept on grinning.

“You’re in a good mood. Why’re you in a good mood? Today isn’t Tuesday.”

Clapping my hand on Cletus’s shoulder, I gave it a small shake. “Just looking forward to the car ride on Saturday is all. You know how much I love making new friends.”

Before he could respond or see me laugh at his discomfort, I turned from my brother and took the stairs two at a time.

“Beauford Fitzgerald Winston—”

“G’night, Cletus.” I waved him off without turning. “No need to stick around. I’ll lock up.”

The intensity of his ire was so strong, I felt the heat of it boring into the back of my head as three thoughts occupied my mind:

One: The ungentlemanly part of me hoped Shelly wasn’t quite finished covering all the “important parts.”

Two: Not that there was any doubt before, but Cletus had it bad for the Banana Cake Queen (aka Jennifer Sylvester) and he clearly had no idea.

Three: Messing with Cletus held second place for the most fun I’d had all day.

First place belonged to Shelly, and every moment we’d spent together.